


Seventeen

by LadyFeste



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, and character speculations on Bill Murray because hey who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:25:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFeste/pseuds/LadyFeste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has a lucky number. Not "good" lucky or "bad" lucky, but perhaps a bit of both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seventeen

John had a lucky number. Not a _good_ lucky number or a _bad_ lucky number. It gave him both, in fact. He avoided the subject around Sherlock, knowing the detective would either laugh or want to run experiments, but John had all the evidence he would ever need.

He was born seventeen days before his due date, and was colicky the first seventeen weeks of his life. The year he turned seventeen was the year is father died, Harry first landed in the hospital for alcohol poisoning, and boredom and grief led John himself to start picking up army pamphlets. Harry called him for help while drunk seventeen times his first year at uni. John began taking her to AA meetings. They ran into Clara on their way to the seventeenth.

His first week in Afghanistan, he saved seventeen lives, both as a soldier and a doctor. Seventeen days into his tour he met Kabil “Bill” Murray, whose multiracial-but-primarily-British family had raised him internationally. Bill became John’s go-to nurse and best friend, and within seventeen months, Bill discovered John's knack for language and had turned him into a polyglot with a limited but decently functional understanding of Mandarin, Hindi, Farsi, Dari, Pashto, and Russian.

In fact, it was Bill and another nurse who first pointed the number out to him, saying that whatever injured man or woman was moved into the seventeenth cot from the entrance of the tent would live, no matter what, provided that Captain John Watson was the one looking after him. John had laughed, then shut up and paid attention when they turned out to be right. When Bill stood a bit too close to a bomb, John made sure he was sent to the seventeenth bed. Seventeen hours later, the man was out of danger and awaiting discharge orders.

Bill insisted on doing his job while the paperwork was being filed, and it was a good thing, too. John knelt over the body of an American soldier with only pieces of one leg still remaining below the knee, while Bill knelt in front of him, on her other side. He looked up and saw the glint of the gun from behind his captain and shouted, diving over the injured woman to tackle John out of harm’s reach before grabbing the captain’s gun and firing off a clean shot at their attacker. The bullet would have gone clear through John’s heart if it wasn’t for Bill, and he would have bled out if the orderly hadn’t been so determined to save both patients.

The American died. John Watson lived, but only just.

And getting shot was the seventeenth time he’d bled in the desert.

Infection set in. John hovered near death for one week, then two. Only those who didn’t know him well assumed he would eventually die. His friends sat with Bill—who had refused to leave his side and was allowed, having aggravated his wounds tackling John—and waited for Day Seventeen. Sure enough, the day came and the fever broke.

John was sent home. Bill wasn’t. Seemed his injuries were not as serious as they’d thought. Bill sent him letters every chance he got, and in the first one wrote that the seventeenth bed wasn’t lucky anymore.

John, for want of anything better to do, went to London, where Harry had moved with Clara. Only to discover the drinking was still going on, Clara was out of the picture, and Harry was either unwilling or unable to help him. The rest of his family was dead, and his friends were all away at war. He was alone.

He would give London seventeen days, he decided, then he would…well, he didn’t know. But he’d do something.

On day sixteen, he ran into Mike Stamford and was introduced to Sherlock Holmes.

On day seventeen, he moved into 221B Baker Street and never looked back.

The number showed up more frequently and less obviously during his time with Sherlock. Seventeen stitches here, seventeen texts there. Seventeen minutes on the violin after each nightmare. Seventeen nightmares before they went away completely. Seventeen “pleases” and “thank yous.” Seventeen joint shopping trips, seventeen “could be dangerouses,” seventeen “you’re an idiots” every week. Seventeen life threatening situations. Seventeen bullets shot, not counting the ones that went into the walls, although, interestingly enough, that was seventeen, too.

Then Sherlock jumped.

Seventeen days before the nightmares started again.

Seventeen grief counseling meetings before Mary Morstan, the cute blond who’d lost her mother, gave him her phone number.

One seventeen-minute unofficial first date that involved Mary Morstan going to Sherlock’s grave with him and holding him while he cried.

Seventeen dates and he knew he loved her.

Seventeen weeks of dating after that and he asked her to marry him. It was quick, yes, but life had recently showed both of them that time waits for no one.

Seventeen more weeks and his fiancé was dead, hit by a drunk driver while on a work holiday.

Seventeen months (exactly, in fact) since Sherlock’s “death” until he returned to London.

After that it was recovery all over again, just like before. He never stopped missing Mary, never stopped wondering “what if,” but he had Sherlock again, and it was seventeen weeks and the nightmares and the crying-in-his-sleep stopped, seventeen experiments before he let himself be properly angry at Sherlock, seventeen arguments before all was well between them, seventeen apologies before the detective was forgiven, seventeen more nightmares before the detective would start to forgive himself.

And when Sherlock’s attention was called to the number, it was entirely by accident. “I do feel as if I’ve failed you sometimes, John,” the detective said with a weary sigh. “I don’t think I’ve rubbed off on you at all. You still don’t _observe._ I bet you’ve never even realized there are sixteen steps leading from Mrs. Hudson’s flat to ours—“

“Not if you count the landing,” John cut in, half asleep.

“What?” Sherlock asked, eyes sharpening.

John sighed and smiled just a bit. “If you count the landing, there are seventeen. Seventeen steps into 221B Baker Street, sixteen leading away, because the landing’s only half a step. You feel it going in—at least, I do. I don’t know about you and your long legs, but I certainly feel it when I’m tired after work or my shoulder or my leg hurts. I feel it going up, but it’s only half a step and easy to skip when going down. Not that we don’t skip steps normally, but it’s still seventeen going up and sixteen going down. That’s how I first knew it was home.”

Sherlock tilted his head and steepled his fingers. “Seventeen up and sixteen down? Preposterous. And what do you mean knew it was home?”

“Seventeen is my number. All my life. Seventeen steps in just...fit.” And he drifted off in his chair, hardly aware he had spoken at all.

He was right; Sherlock did tease mercilessly.

Until it turned out to be true.

(Then came the experiments. Sherlock was more predictable than he’d like to believe.)


End file.
